the pilgrim’s Mayflower didn’t pass this way,
not Rome, Italy. an email from M. told me
she’s off to my brother’s for a family dinner.
that’s how i found out it is today.
went out this morning to bus away,
to the large strange market Esquilino.
first though, i wandered a bit, then decided
i already had enough vegetables for soup.
took coffee at one of the remaining old bars,
for old times sake, in celebration of the day.
this bar remains leftover from the Nineteenth Century,
while most places change, for the sake of change.
i passed into the piazza of Chiesa Nuova.
paused in a steam of golden sun, to think, to rest.
a familiar beggar quickly glanced, quietly went by.
evidently he remembered this time, i am a local.
then Campo dei Fiori. faces i know.
jokes, calls and small talk abound.
sat on the ledge at the base of the stature of Bruno
in the warm hold of morning sun glow.
Prospero, the veteran salesman, as of late
it's a plastic tool that cuts veggies into squiggles,
who says a few words of banter in many languages,
has a man working for him now. to sell to tourists.
Prospero came over to where i sat,
we’ve spoken many times. said he remembered,
waving, pointing, when i painted in the market everyday.
there and there. memories of the ebbing last century.
we talked of the old and current changing times,
of those come and gone, of this market now for tourists.
he is older and played these streets as a ragamuffin.
i'v known these waves of change a meager twenty years.
much of the old has been discarded, renewed modern.
he recalled the beauty of the faded unpainted stone exteriors.
i told him our building’s 400 year old worn smooth marble steps
have been replaced by sharp edged cheaper new ones.
then nearly home i saw my friend Franco, wood worker.
23 years in his unchanged ancient shop on our lane,
where more than four hundred years ago
it was named for the hat makers, via dei Cappellarri.
in these hard times Franco’s landlord has tripled the rent.
Franco is saddened to be leaving to an area farther out.
i will miss him and the picturesque shop that is sure to change,
a left over. as fewer and fewer of the old shops remain.
again another beggar passed, going the opposite way.
with sad face he called back to me, “Ho Fame.”
readers, that means i am hungry. what do you say?
and this morning i learned Thanksgiving's this day.
surely not only the poet has heart,
and feelings run deep as large fish in great rivers.
whether warm or icy, under clouds of rain or sunny skies,
we must accept life as it is given, and should give thanks in return.
